“Unfortunately,” says Pearce, “a lot of disappearances are never solved. You know that as well as I do. It has nothing to do with Cole Wright.”

For a second, I think about bringing up Amber Keenan’s murder, but I realize that won’t get us anywhere with Pearce. Besides, I’m really curious to hear what he’s up to with this call.

“Here’s what you need to understand,” says Pearce. “I can’t stop you from chasing rumors, even though you’re wasting your time.”

“And if we find out that the rumors are true?”

“All I’m asking is that you give me a chance to comment on or rebut anything you find.”

Time for me to speak up again. “We need something in return.”

“Such as?”

“If your conspiracy theory turns out to be true, we want an exclusive one-on-one with the president and the First Gentleman and access to your investigation. Before the Post. Before the Times. Before CNN. Before anybody.”

Pearce chuckles. “Where’d you go to law school, Ms. Cooke?”

“Columbia, sir.”

“They taught you well. We have a deal.”

“All right, then, Mr. Pearce,” says Garrett. “Have a good night.”

Pearce leans in close to the camera. “Mr. Wilson?”

“Sir?”

“I’d try a warm compress if I were you.” The screen goes black.

Garrett and I just stare at each other until he finally asks, “Did we just get bamboozled by the second-most-powerful person in the country?”

“No. I think we just found out how close we are to hitting a nerve.”

CHAPTER
44

Roxbury, Massachusetts

The next morning, against my better judgment, we’re sitting in the second-floor office of Seymour Washington, private investigator.

On the drive from Litchfield to Roxbury, Garrett logged phone time with Liberty Mutual insurance and Enterprise Rent-A-Car, explaining his so-called accident and arranging for an appraisal of the wrecked vehicle.

I kept quiet, thinking about Suzanne Bonanno and Amber Keenan, two innocent young women who did not deserve their fates.

Seymour Washington, by contrast, is anything but innocent.

I’ve met Washington only once before, a few years back, when we were working on Integrity Gone. He gave me the creeps then. Still does now.

I glance around the office. The walls are lined with framed photos of Washington posed with national leaders, like Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, Cory Booker, and Barack Obama, and local Boston politicians like Mel King. An older picture shows a much younger Washington—huge ’fro, multicolored dashiki, and a raised clenched fist—standing in front of the John Harvard statue in Cambridge.

Today, he’s in a three-piece suit and ready to get down to business. He leans across his desk and looks at Garrett. “So you and John DeMarco came to an understanding.”

“Stop right there,” I say.

Washington turns to me. I hold out my hand. “Give me a dollar.”

Washington’s brow furrows. “What for?”

“Don’t ask. Just do it.”